Smoke 'em If You Got 'em
by WatsonsWarrior
Summary: In a war where you quickly come to value the life around you and those that make it bearable, it's no surprise the two were drawn to each other. PierceIntyre stories. Fluff/gen/our two favorite boys being boys.
1. Hands

**So- as a starting note to begin all this: This is somewhat shippy and will probably end up being somewhat slashy at some point. Either way, fluff or smut or etc etc, the relationship is between our favorite Doctor Pierce and Doctor McIntyre. If you don't like that, this isn't your story. I plan on this being a collection of short, mostly unrelated chapters on different subjects. Kind of taken from an OTP challenge. Everyone enjoy.**

 _ **Disclaimer: No part of M*A*S*H or its actors, plot line, funds, (or anything else relating in any way at all to the television show) belong to me. If it did, you'd all be the first to know.**_

* * *

 _Dear Dad,_

 _It's me again. Hope you're all doing well and have recovered quickly from the bad banana incident. Just thinking about it makes me want to puke, and trust me, that's no easy job. I get used to the derogatory around here- the worst thing I've ever heard is our lunch. It's always making all sorts of sounds.._

 _..._

 _..._

 _I've recently been in contact with an orthopedic surgeon who specializes in hands. I was disappointed to find he only has two. We called him in relation to one of our wounded we had come in about a week ago. The boy's hands had been pulverized. Put neatly, it was like he'd stuck his hands under a meat cleaver for a couple hours while someone relentlessly whacked at them. We're still not exactly sure what happened, except that it involved a lot of firepower. Possibly a grenade or something else that goes bang! But it really got me to thinking, Dad. Hands are great. They are really an important part of all of us. If I didn't have mine, I couldn't operate- or worse, use the latrine on my own. Musicians use theirs for everything, from tuning their guitars to playing a flute or cleaning their instruments. We use them to bring life into this world, to sign orders that will kill thousands, to end a life, to give comfort, to tie our shoes, to steady ourselves- even to tell a story. It's just amazing. If I write to you next time and you find that I've defected and dedicated my life to writing a book about all the deep insights I've learned being a professionally operating clown in this crazy man's circus - well, I'll send you my first copy free- and signed._

 _Can't wait to hear from you again,_

 _Hawkeye_

The dark-haired surgeon looked up from his pen and paper, staring at the ceiling of the Swamp. It was just hot enough out that he didn't feel like doing much, even though there had been a semi-approachable meal for dinner and the nurses were talking just outside his tent. Folding the letter up and setting it beside him, Hawkeye flopped over on his back and closed his eyes, eventually falling asleep.

Sometime later the door banged shut and woke him with a start. It was past dark, and the camp was considerably quieter than it had been when he'd fallen asleep. Cooler, too. Trapper was making his way to the basin of water across the tent. Frank was nowhere to be seen, so it was probably safe to assume he was off somewhere "Going over medical records," or "Working on hot-weather-attire protocol," with another certain Major.

"Having a good evening, Captain?" Hawkeye pulled his blanket up under his chin and smiled with sickening sweetness at his friend.

"Oh, ya know. No moon means no shadow on the water. Caught me a nurse," Trapper said. Hawkeye smirked, but the look quickly faded when Trapper turned to him, holding out a blooded arm. Swinging his legs over the side of his cot and standing up, Pierce swore under his breath. "Had a little accident, too." Trapper made his way over to his friend, grimacing as he pulled the towel away.

"Damn, trap. Stick yourself with a hook while you were out fishing for a pretty face?"

"Only if you consider a spare scalpel a fish hook."

Hawkeye had moved them closer to the light, inspecting his friend's hand and looking for the source of blood. Wiping away at skin, he found a gash that started a couple of inches below Trapper's wrist and continued up the hand and toward the base of his thumb. Without any exchange between the two of them, he began to clean the wound and assess the damage. It was deep, but if it weren't for the length it would've been fine. Due to how long the cut was, it wouldn't stay closed by itself at any rate.

"It'll need sutures."

Trapper nodded. "Go ahead. Couldn't do it myself or I would've..." They met eyes over the bloodied hand. "Say, give me a lightning bolt, Doc. I've always wanted a cool scar."

Hawkeye retrieved the necessary items from his bag and set to work. He knew the drill. John hated being a patient, would argue against going anywhere else to stitch it up other than right there in the Swamp, and he wouldn't take the local anesthetic or pain meds. That was just the way he was. There was always something a little deeper to that, an explanation Pierce wasn't going to pry for. He had his guesses, and that was enough. The sutures were quick- hell, he could do five different sutures in his sleep. Four neatly placed and evenly-spread sutures were all he did, and then quickly bandaged the hand. Once he was done, he started cleaning up after himself.

"How'd that happen, exactly?"

"In the wonderful process of getting wonderfully handsy with a nurse, my hands found a not-so-wonderfully placed 20-blade someone had failed to put in a sharps container."

Hawkeye shook his head, munching an olive from a glass he'd finished off after dinner. "Always liked the ones with softer edges."

"Hmm."

Too awake to go to sleep and too tired to argue when Trapper plopped down beside him for a drink of his own, Hawkeye settled against his pillows and picked up a magazine. Frank was still gone- no argument there. Trapper slid to the floor and opened a deck of cards, playing silently beside Hawkeye's bed. His arm came to rest on the cot, the one he'd hurt. Hawkeye flipped to the next page in his magazine, deeply engrossed on an article that was really more picture-heavy than wordy. All about the medical dangers of wearing too much of a bathing suit while swimming. Very enlightening, to be sure. Movement beside him caught his eye- Trapper had his hand folded, absent-mindedly running his hand against the bandage.

"Now now, doctor, be a good patient or I'll have to get chinese handcuffs for each of your fingers." Hawkeye placed his hand over Trappers, shaking his head in mock disapproval.

"Sorry, just need more than one hand to practice a new trick."

"You mean a new cheat," Hawkeye amended. The surgeon beside him shrugged.

"It's a trick as long as the other person doesn't find out." He glanced at his hand, where Hawkeye's fingers were resting against his own. They were almost slotted together, and it only took a slight movement to make it that way. Hawkeye relished the warm fingers and the rough bandage beneath his own. Strong hands, a surgeons hands. Playful hands that could maneuver their way around a set of cards as well as stitch the life-blood back into a person's insides. Hawkeye rubbed his thumb to and fro across the tan skin, looking back down at his magazine.

"Still need your hand?"

"Not if it means you'll keep it for a while. Always knew I could do this one-handed. Lots of things I could learn to do one-handed. Eat, sleep, operate, unfasten a bra-" Hawkeye threw his head back laughing, cutting him off.

"I can't help you there!"

"I'm sure I can find someone to practice on." Trapper shot him a grin.

"Oh sure, sure. Klinger might be willing to- hey, oww!"

* * *

 _p.s. If anyone has requests for something, don't hesitate to let me know and I'll get right on it._


	2. Post-Op

**When I say "somewhat shippy" and possibly "somewhat slashy", I really mean especially shippy and mostly slashy. Haha.  
** _ **Disclaimer: Do not own, or make any profit from or do anything benefitting me in any illegal manner whatsoever with any of the M*A*S*H story-lines, characters, or anything that has to do with it. At all. End of story. (I hate disclaimers, in case you couldn't tell.)**_

* * *

"Clamp."

"Clamp."

Hawkeye let out a long yawn behind his surgical mask. His breath was rank from not eating or drinking for the last few hours, and he curled his nose at the smell. It was three o'clock in the morning and the majority of the medical staff had all retired. Henry was running anesthesia while they finished this last surgery, and Trapper had left half a hour ago, upon Hawkeye's insistence. Trying to stay awake, Pierce recalled in his mind a timeline of the last day, including most memorable moments- mentally composing a letter to his father. He would mention the long hours, the boy who couldn't be over sixteen that had died on his table, and the sandwiches Radar had managed to procure that were basically a lifeline for everyone. He wouldn't mention having to change his blood-soaked socks, or the amount of gin he'd consume afterward to get over the whole ordeal. He wouldn't mention trying to save the ones he knew he couldn't- he wouldn't mention yelling at anyone in the area who would listen, or that he had fumed and swore until he couldn't breathe, or that he'd worried he'd gone off the deep end for a minute there.

 _"I know everyone thinks you're something special, but you're not God!"_

 _A clash of surgical instruments being thrown and a stunned silence that followed afterward. "In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly working with the twelve disciples, either, Frank."_

Of course, he'd felt bad. He'd apologized. Cleaned up his mess, and helped carry the boy out. There wasn't a soul in the unit that wasn't either sleeping or exhausted- _or both,_ Hawkeye thought. His nurse was practically asleep on her feet and he wasn't far behind. The exhaustion had overridden his humor and he had even given up on bothering Frank. Thirteen hours of on-and-off surgery (mostly on, in the surgeons' cases,) had them all beat. Luckily, it was almost over. The attacks at the front had been drawn back- at least for now. Hawkeye finished his last suture and leaned back heavily against the wall, motioning at the staff who immediately took over, preparing the patient for post-op recovery. Pulling off his pair of bloody gloves and throwing them in the bin, he started washing his hands in the sink and scrubbing himself down, watching the water rush down the drain, tinted with red. He made his way outside slowly, mouth stretched open in a yawn. Leaning against the wall, he took in the smell of _not_ _surgery._ Ignoring the rain on his face, he breathed in deeply, daring to close his eyes for a few seconds. It was silent, ignoring the normal sounds of the M*A*S*H unit. Someone pacing behind the tents on guard duty, a latrine door slamming shut, boots in the mud- and the rain. The rain was a refreshing cleanse after smelling nothing but a mixture of blood and antiseptic for what seemed like days. The air wasn't stale, there was no OR clatter or discussion, no tension and just the rain. Rain, and mud, and night, and a wall to sit against, and tired, and sleep- and suddenly waking.

"Hawk. Hawkeye! Hey, come on."

Blinking awake, Hawkeye saw Trapper leaning over him, curls peeking out from where the hood of his jacket was pulled up to shield himself from the pelting rain. Unsure of his own feet, Pierce allowed himself to be pulled up from his spot against the wall and dragged toward the Swamp. He knew Trapper had asked him why he was in the rain, and if he was okay, but an answer was hard to produce from his mind that insisted on staying asleep. There was only a brief moment when he entered the Swamp and sat down on his cot that he felt vividly awake for. Trapper had knelt down in front of him and began pulling his boots off, unlacing them and tugging them off gently. It was only once he started pulling Pierce's shirt over his head that he gave any hint of being awake- grabbing Trapper by the hands and shushing him, as though the motion would bring attention.

"He's still here, Trap." Hawkeye nodded in the direction of Frank's bunk. The major was snoring soundly from the dark corner of the tent. Trapper had shook his head and finished pulling the soaking shirt over Hawkeye's head.

"Don't care."

Pierce felt something wrap around his shoulders and let himself be tucked into the cot, his mind remembering that his dad used to tuck him into bed- a tuck at the sides, and then the feet, then a comforting hand on his shoulder before he went to sleep. The routine was the same with Trapper- except for the kiss on his temple- that was certainly new- but Hawkeye Pierce was blissfully unaware of this, eyes shut and furrowed under the army-issued, drab blankets, fully asleep.

The next morning- or afternoon, really, seeing as he'd slept until well after lunch the next day- Hawkeye stumbled out of his tent, clad in the clothes he'd slept in. He pulled his boots on and headed straight for the mess tent, seeing as there was no reason to worry about missing his shifts that had already gone by. Radar had snuck in early that morning to inform him that Frank and Henry had done Post-Op duty for him and cut the detail in half for the rest of the afternoon since he'd worked extra shifts the previous day. Entering the tent, Pierce steered clear of the leftovers from whatever it was they'd had for lunch and grabbed a cup of coffee. Cold coffee, but coffee. Grabbing a second cup in his other hand, he headed out into the sunlight and toward Post-Op. Major Houlihan fell in beside him, offering him a small smile. He returned it, inquiring about one of his patients.

"I'm on my way over now. Why don't you tag along and see him for yourself?"

"Sure thing."

"You really needed one for each hand?" She motioned at the coffee cups. He smirked.

"Oh yes. It's always best that way; like when handling a nurse."

"Oh! You're disgraceful to this army."

"Thank you. I try."

Hawkeye held the door open for the major and they entered together. Frank and Trapper were standing nearby, seemingly having a battle of opinions. Margaret hurried to the back to consult with the last nurse on duty before the shift change. As soon as Frank saw Pierce coming toward him, he pointed at him. "And you! He's no better. You two think just because you worked more means my work is less important! You're always showing up at inopportune times, when I've already done what needs to be done-" Frank looked Pierce up and down once. "And never professional. You're not even wearing your uniform- you're not even wearing your own clothes."

Pierce looked down at himself. It was true- the only thing that belonged to him that he was wearing was his shoes, pants and underwear. Trapper's robe was around his shoulders, and the teeshirt underneath was suspiciously too big for his narrow shoulders. He shrugged. "I can take them off for you, if you like."

Frank's mouth fell open and he spluttered. "I could have you for that."

"Sorry, I don't swing that way."

Frank glared, opened his mouth to reply, and thought better of it, hurrying off- no doubt to go tell on the boys to Margaret. Trapper laughed and picked up the chart the major threw down onto the bed, handing it to Hawkeye. "Here's the one you finished up last night. You did good."

"Why of course. Simple." It had been his longest surgery, the most tedious, the one that he would let himself be proud of if the kid did alright. "Could've done it in my sleep."

"You did." Trapper's tone was teasing, but he had a sympathetic look on his face. Hawkeye wasn't sure, but he felt like he detected a hint of pride in the man's eyes as well. He nodded once, acknowledging what was going unsaid. Trapper handed him the clipboard for the next patient, their hands brushing as he did so. Hawkeye looked up, meeting the eyes smiling at him. He smiled back- and called for another back of fluids.


End file.
